


...like cats and dogs

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, M/M, Post-Quantum of Solace, Pre-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:03:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: In the months after Dominic Greene's death in Bolivia and Yusef Kabira's capture in Russia, James Bond settles back into MI6 and London, moving into a new neighborhood, and running into — quite literally — a new neighbor.But they get along great.  Just like cats and dogs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [christinefromsherwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/gifts).

> Christine won a Fest Prize from me: a short fic (roughly 1-5k words). She asked for an AU meeting fic, where the meet-cute involves Bond with a dog and Q with a cat. She also asked for my 4 Q head canons from fest be incorporated (I'll definitely get at least 3 of them in). And then at the MI6Cafe, azure7539 posted a “prompt list of sarcasm” so I worked in as many of those as I could, since they seemed appropriate for this younger (more innocent? nah) version of Q. So this is basically prompt salad, with pretty much everything thrown in. Bon Appétit.

James blames the darkness. By the time he notices the man crouching by the kerb in his dressing gown, it’s too late. Saoirse has already seen the cat, and the cat has definitely already seen Saoirse.

“No,” he cries, pulling back on the lead as the enthusiastic Airedale lunges forward, pulling him into the man who’s diving for the cat.

“Oh, bloody fucking brilliant,” the slender stranger exclaims, now sprawled on the pavement, side-eying the dog as the cat scampers up a nearby elm. Peering up into the branches, he adds, “You’ll not find your way home. You haven’t learned the way yet. And I’m not dressed for tree-climbing.”

“God, I’m sorry about that,” Bond says, offering the man a hand up after getting Saoirse in a proper ‘heel’ position. She’s not hiding her interest in the tree or cat particularly well — she’s a dog, after all — but her manners are back. “We’re usually safe to go for a run after eleven in this neighborhood. I wasn’t watching very carefully.”

The man turns to face Bond, taking a deep breath to… James isn’t sure. Some retort seems to die on his lips as he sees James. He takes James’ hand and, once he’s righted, tightens his robe around himself and secures the sash, hiding a ‘David Guetta’ graphic tee and tartan pajama bottoms. Drawing himself up to his full height, he’s as tall as James, though thin enough that it looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over.

“She shouldn’t be out in the first place,” he says, nodding at the cat. “I’d let her fend for herself and go to bed, but I was changing out her tags, so she’s not wearing her collar. If she gets lost, I might not see her again.”

“And you’d just about coaxed her home when we came barreling along,” James surmises.

“Oaf,” the man confirms with a smirk, though James isn’t sure if he’s referring to him or Saoirse.

“She’s not so bad,” James says, deciding to interpret the comment as the latter. “Here, if you’ll hold her, I’ll see to the tree-climbing.”

“Oh, that’s not nec—”

But James has already thrust the lead into the stranger’s hands and jumped to grasp the lowest branch. He pulls himself up and straddles the branch, his back to the trunk of the tree as he faces a very alarmed, pissed-off puss.

“What’s her name?” he asks, scratching at the bark in front of him and trying to look harmless.

“Katherine,” the man says absently, pulling at the lead to keep Saoirse sitting.

“The Great?” James asks the cat. “Are you named for a Queen?”

“A queen in a sense. She’s named for a NASA mathematician.”

“Ah. I think I’ve seen that film. Trying to get a bit closer to the moon, are you, girl?” he asks, scratching at the bark again. She’s looking more curious than alarmed now. “We didn’t mean to scare you. Saoirse is just a happy girl. Nothing to be alarmed about. Come here. You’ve got him all worried for you… and out in his bare feet, even. Come on, love,” he urges, scratching the branch as the cat approaches cautiously.

It takes another minute, but he finally gets his hand on the jittery feline. He hushes it and cradles it against his chest as he drops back down to the pavement.

“Here you go,” he says, offering the cat. “No harm, no foul.”

“You’re a cat whisperer,” the man says, taking his Katherine and handing back the lead for Saoirse. “And you are a troublemaker,” he accuses the feline fondly. “No more exploring until we have your tags back on, understood?” He turns to Bond. “Thank you, Mr…”

He’s not sure what makes him do it. He’s given his name to people far more dangerous seeming than this wisp of a man with unruly hair and crooked spectacles. But he hesitates to do it now. “Sterling,” he offers. “James Sterling.” It’s neither his name nor a proper alias, and he nearly kicks himself. “And you?”

“Michael Smith,” the man answers, and if that isn’t a fake name, James will eat a hat. But it hardly matters. They’re not likely to ever see each other again.

“Well, I’d best be on my way. Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Smith.” And without looking back, James resumes his run, vowing to put the entire experience out of his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention in my first chapter that the lovely @soufflegirl91 is betaing this for me, and doing a marvelous job of letting me bother her with ideas and catching my stupid mistakes... thanks m'dear!

James is sent to Italy, where the government seems to be imploding with some help from international right-wing neo-fascist groups. Saoirse is back with her owner, and James finds he actually misses her upon his return to London. He could never own a dog with the life he has, but he does enjoy dog-sitting when he knows he’ll be in town for a bit. 

He wanders the neighborhood in the early evening, too antsy from the mission to stay in his flat, and too long home to just get pissed. He enters a cafe, getting in line to place his order and scanning the tables and exits, because some habits never die. It’s an odd crowd. Mostly hipsters, drinking enough coffee to keep a mere mortal up all night, a few pairs that _might_ be on dates, a few solitary souls poking away at their laptops — one who’s rather familiar looking.

“Michael?” he asks once he’s gotten his coffee and approached the small table. The occupant looks up from his laptop owlishly, and Bond can actually watch the gears moving as recognition slots into place. 

“The cat whisperer… James?”

“I thought that was you. Almost didn’t recognize you out of your dressing gown. You’re even wearing shoes.”

“Well, I do _typically_ dress before going out. You just caught me on a very strange night.”

“So this is more the norm?” James asks, motioning to the black jeans and grey hoodie.

“Unless I need to impress someone.” He’s still typing at his computer, but he’s not focused on it, exactly. His eyes gravitate to a table in the corner of the cafe. There are an older man and a younger woman, and James is immediately struck by a strange tension between them. First date, perhaps. Blind date? Does Michael know them?

Michael abruptly looks around the cafe to see that the tables are full and pushes out the chair next to him. James takes it as an invitation to sit.

“I don’t want to interrupt your work,” James says, grateful for the seat nonetheless.

Michael shrugs, closing out of an application window before James could quite tell what it is. “Not work, per se. More of a side project. So, where’s the hellhound?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee and then setting the mug atop a notepad covered with a distinctive slanting script in some sort of code — perhaps actual computer code.

“She’s a very good pup, I’ll have you know,” James says, sitting back and trying not to be such a nosy spy. 

Michael snorts and rolls his eyes.

“She is. And she’s not actually mine. I just get to take care of her now and again when I’m not traveling for work.”

“And is that often? We didn’t get into careers and such at our first meeting.”

“I work in imports/exports. Mostly luxury items and—”

Michael holds up his hand. “Nevermind. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care what my career is?” James asks stifling a smile. His cover story is meant to be boring so as to deflect interest, but it rarely works so efficiently.

“I care so little, I almost passed out.”

James barks a laugh. “And what do you do that’s so much more interesting? Computers are mostly imported, too, you know.”

“Yes, but hardly luxury items, in this day and age. And my job is boring, too. Let’s talk about literally anything else.”

“Art?”

“If we must,” Michael replies with a smirk.

“Monet or Manet?”

“Van Gogh.”

"Picasso or Chagall?”

“Klimt.”

“Moody,” James remarks.

“Turbulent,” Michael counters.

James takes a sip of his coffee. “Bold,” he muses.

Michael shrugs again. “Maybe. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about and I’m just throwing out random names in the hopes of intriguing you.”

“It’s working.”

Michael shakes his head with a huff of a laugh and finishes his coffee. “Well, this has been a delight. Running into you without, you know, _running into you_.”

“Or being run into.”

“Or that.” He starts packing up his computer, slipping it into a small bag. “You can have the table; I need to be going.” Michael raises the hood of his jacket and stands to slip the bag over his shoulder.

Activity at the front of the cafe draws James’ attention. Four police officers enter and surround the table with the couple James had noticed earlier. The couple Michael had been watching.

“I wonder what—” But when he turns, Michael is gone.

The officers have the man up and pressed against the wall, cuffs already binding his hands. The woman is crying and shouting in French, and the bobbies are asking her to calm down but it clearly isn’t working.

James stands to offer assistance, but before he can, Michael is there, crouching to speak to her. James approaches in time to hear the end of the conversation. The woman is nodding and wiping tears from her face, and Michael is consoling her in _perfect_ French. Her accent is Senegalese, but his is Parisian through and through. 

“She needs a female officer and a translator,” Michael explains to the officer in charge. “She’ll cooperate, but she’s scared.”

The bobby nods and turns to make the arrangements with another officer. “Oi, you shut it!” he yells at the man in cuffs who’s now shouting over his shoulder in French at the girl about what will happen to her family if she talks. And she is just a girl. Nowhere near as old as she looked from across the room. “We have enough evidence to put you away for a good long time,” the officer continues, waving a thick manila envelope bearing a familiar, slanting scrawl. 

James whips around to find Michael, and he’s gone. _Again_.

Out on the pavement, he catches a glimpse of the man just as he merges into a group crossing the street. James pursues him, trying not to draw attention to himself. There are hoodies everywhere and James trails him for several blocks before realizing that Michael must be aware of the chase and James is _losing _him. He begins to run, rounding the last corner he’s sure he saw the correct grey hoodie traverse, only to find an empty alley. He searches the buildings for CCTV and finds none. Cursing under his breath, he slaps a bin in what must be the only completely blind alley London. Michael has disappeared like a ghost. 

Of course, James could go find the tree Katherine had been caught in. Surely Michael lives near there. He’s just turning to head in that direction when a figure steps out of a shadow.

James hopes his gasp isn’t audible. “You really are a cat,” he comments, turning toward Michael in a way that he hopes looks relaxed. 

“And you are a bloody foxhound,” the man replies back. But he looks more amused than alarmed.

“You knew that was going to happen.”

His expression turns earnest. “I didn’t. Not all of it.”

“Your writing was on the officer’s evidence folder.”

“Import/export my arse,” Michael mutters under his breath. “Look, I didn’t know the extent of it. Just. Pedophiles shouldn’t use public WiFi at my favorite cafe. It was practically impossible to _avoid_ seeing what was on his laptop. But I didn’t realize it was international. I would have… I would have handled things differently. Well, probably not _that _differently, but… I just thought he was a run-of-the-mill scumbag, not an international trafficking scumbag. But I’m sure the good men and women of Scotland Yard can sort him out.”

James wonders idly if he’ll have a mission to follow up on this little discovery. “And you weren’t worried he’d find out you were the one who turned him in?” 

“Was I worried that the pillock who looked at child pornography on public WiFi would suddenly become aware enough of security protocols to see me forwarding his files to Scotland Yard? No, that never crossed my mind, to be honest.”

James huffs a laugh. “You’re not nearly the harmless little crazy-cat-person I first took you for.”

“You have no idea,” Michael quips. “You’re a bit cleverer than the oafish Labrador I took you for.”

“Saoirse’s not a Lab.”

“Who said anything about Saoirse?”

James laughs again. “A bit of a little shit, too, aren’t you?”

“The pillock back at the cafe would certainly think so. But if you’re referencing my _charm_, sarcasm is just a natural response to stupidity.”

“I thought you said I was clever.”

“Cleverer than a dog. But I actually didn’t mean you. I meant... _them_.” He motions to the world at large. “You… you’re... “

James raises an eyebrow, wondering where this is going. 

Michael sighs and tilts his head, assessing James. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” It’s a deduction more than a request.

“That you’re a secret vigilante disguised as some cat-loving boffin? Who would believe me?” James asks. “Besides, I quite like the idea.” No, this Michael-who-names-his-cat- after-mathematicians is not really what he expected at all. “I never did get to finish my coffee. Can I interest you in a drink? Something a bit stronger than a flat white, perhaps.”

Michael hesitates. He’s clearly weighing the option, and considering that he was running from James just moments ago, it feels like a win.

“I think I should get home. But maybe next time we run into each other in the neighborhood.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” James insists. “I know where you live. A bit.”

“James Sterling. You may know where I live, but I daresay I can find whatever I need on you to keep us in a state of detente.”

James is suddenly very pleased he didn’t give this man his real name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say this story would be between 1 and 5K? Those of you who know me realize that translates to 7-8k.
> 
> Many thanks to Souffle for betaing and all the MI6Cafe folks for writing sprints, to the readers for commenting, and especially Christine for giving me such a fun prompt.

He receives summons to M’s office while loitering in Q Branch, hearing the latest from old Boothroyd about a walking stick that can be split into flame-throwing nunchucks. James has no idea when such a weapon would be useful — or how to deploy it without singing oneself — but he can’t deny the Major’s enthusiasm.

M is on the phone as he enters, motioning for James to sit as she finishes a call from the PM. The china bulldog on her desk side-eyes him, and he wonders idly whether M has a dog at home. She’s doing her best to hide it, but frustration rolls off her in waves as her responses to the PM grow clipped and terse. She hangs up and leans against her desk, composing herself.

“I need you to go to Greece.”

“Ma’am.”

“It’s a quick mission. In and out, and _no explosions_!” She hands him a file.

He opens it to review the synopsis. “Did you know that Major Boothroyd is designing flame-throwing nunchucks disguised as a walking stick?”

“Your point, Bond?”

“If you’re trying to discourage flames… you may need to have a chat with your inventors. Which reminds me, last mission I was issued a laptop and told to transfer data from the hotel.”

“Yes.”

“How sure are we that such transfers are secure?”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. I just recently witnessed a civilian tracking computer information on a public WiFi connection and it made me curious.” M straightens up and sighs. “It’s been brought to my attention that our network is due some upgrades. They are being prioritized as we speak, and a new task force is conducting a thorough review of all computer systems and protocols. I trust that addresses your concerns.”

Bond holds his hands up in surrender. “I was merely asking. I’m somewhat tech-savvy, but I wouldn’t want classified information being stolen because I was not taking some necessary precautions that I was unaware of.”

“It’s bloody difficult to stay ahead of the damned hackers,” M admits, “but it’s not your job. Now, about Greece...”

He’s gone for three days, and though nothing exploded, the car chase through Athens leads to a week of forced leave while M smooths things over.

Which means he has time on his hands. And that is always dangerous.

He finds himself at the cafe often enough that they learn his order and know his name. He’s a regular, which is not a good thing for a spy to be, but not a bad thing for a cover. He reads the paper. He reads a book. And he’s definitely _not_ waiting for Michael. He’s barely thought about the slender vigilante boffin with the disheveled curls and the high cheekbones and the bright green eyes. Really.

Today he’s gotten his coffee and found a table in the front window, with a view of the shops across the street. It’s getting dark outside, which is why he notices for the first time that the second floor houses one of those hot yoga studios. People half dressed and contorting themselves into a dizzying array of shapes and positions are visible through the large picture windows. And there’s Michael. In form-fitting compression wear and no shirt, a sheen of sweat highlighting his lithe muscles, Michael looks like some fey changeling. Then he bends himself in two, arse in the air, and Bond burns his mouth on a gulp of too-hot coffee.

He pretends to read as the class lets out. Michael comes out near the end, more covered now in the familiar dark jeans, boots, and a jumper. He’s accompanied by an older man who is just as fit and lean. They talk in an animated fashion for a moment, the man frequently reaching out to touch Michael — on his shoulder, his arm, his chest. At first, James thinks they’re flirting, but there’s something off about it. After watching for a moment longer, James abandons his coffee and makes his way across the street.

“There you are,” James says, keeping his hands in his coat pockets but getting close enough to Michael that a relationship could be inferred. “Class run late?”

Michael’s expression is priceless, but he recovers reasonably quickly. “Ah… Yes, sorry. I lost track of time,” he says. “Ah, James, this is Christian, my yoga instructor — I’m sure I’ve spoken about him.”

“Of course,” James answers easily, turning to loom a bit over Christian and offer a hand in a way that can’t be denied, “pleased to meet you.” He’s sure to shake the man’s hand _very _firmly.

Christian looks back and forth at them, and James is pleased to see a bit of alarm in his expression.

“Well, it seems I need to be going,” Michael says before things can get more awkward. “Thank you again for a fantastic session. I’ll certainly consider attending the workshop. James? Ready?”

“Of course,” he purrs, giving Christian one last long look before turning to follow Michael.

When they’re a few meters away Michael breaks into a grin. “He’s going to think I have a very intimidating boyfriend.”

“Maybe, though I could be your brother for all he knows.”

Michael snorts.

“I was at the cafe, and… I’m sure you could have handled him, but you had a cornered-at-a-party look about you,” James explains. “So, I thought... some back-up might be in order.”

“He’s getting more persistent,” Michael acknowledges ruefully as they walk. “I could make my disinterest more clear, but then I might have to find a new yoga studio, and this one is both convenient and good. So I’d really rather not. And he’s nice enough, but really not my type.”

“Too old?” James guesses.

“No, just too... New Agey. And a bit too lanky.” He looks furtively at James’ chest, which James finds intriguing. “Besides, he’s buggered everyone in that studio, male and female. Which is fine; I just feel like he’s not so much interested in _me_ as trying to complete a collection. I don’t think we have much in common other than our yoga practice.”

“Not enough of a vigilante for you?”

Michael snorts another laugh and stops to turn toward Bond. “We don’t speak of that, remember?”

“Right, sorry.” James nods, grinning. They look at each other for a moment, humor simmering between them. And something else.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” Michael asks, grabbing a helmet off a Triumph motorbike and handing it to James.

“This is yours?” he asks incredulously.

“What did you think I’d drive? A Mini?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought,” James admits. “But I suppose this fits. You know, last time I sacrificed a cup coffee for you, you promised to have a drink with me the next time we bumped into each other.”

“I did, didn’t I? Well, not a promise exactly, but I see your point.” He looks down at himself. “I can’t possibly go out without a shower.”

That’s not a ‘no’. “Fine,” James says, “I can wait.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “So, you think we’ll just head out to my flat so I can have a wash while you nose about, and then we’ll go out for a drink?”

James shrugs. “Exactly.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve not had dinner yet.”

James grins at him. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Souffle for betaing!

James likes the feel of Michael in front of him on the motorbike. He’s lean and a competent driver, taking the curves just fast enough that James has to grasp his hips a little tighter, curl into his back so they can lean and shift as one. If the trip were much longer, Michael may have been able to feel just how much James was enjoying it.

As it turns out, though, the trip is long enough to feed the apparent interest growing between them, and not so long as to introduce any awkwardness. James becomes reacquainted with Katherine as Michael retreats to the back of the flat to get cleaned up. And frankly, James is amazed at the trust he’s being shown. This is apparently how other people behave around each other: invite someone in to pet the cat, have a glass of wine, and look over the bookshelves of personal effects while making oneself as vulnerable as possible — naked and wet and half-blind without spectacles. It’s almost daunting, the level of trust or naivety it shows. He would _never_ trust someone so much.

Then again, perhaps he’s not left to his own devices so much as it seems. The flat has a modern, somewhat cluttered aesthetic, but is not so messy as to hide the small camera at the top of the bookshelf. And if James has found that one while perusing the titles, there are probably others. Michael is a bit of a tech whiz. James would be wise to assume he’s aware of James’ every move.

Michael returns after about fifteen minutes wearing a dark green shirt and trendy cardigan, his hair damp and smelling of something botanical. He laughs when he finds James sitting in the grey curve-backed club chair reading one of his paperbacks with Katherine purring on his lap.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Michael comments with a wry grin. “She must remember you from the rescue.” He reaches down to scratch the cat’s ear. “Any idea where you’d like to go to eat? I’m a bit famished.”

They choose a Moroccan restaurant far enough away that they decide to take the motorbike again, this time grabbing an extra helmet. The food is rich and succulent, and they end up sharing a few dishes so they can taste different flavors. Conversation drifts easily between topics, never settling on anything very personal. By the end of the meal, James has a general sense of Michael’s tastes in books and music, when he started with his yoga, and why he prefers the engines of Triumph motorbikes over the (clearly superior) Nortons. James also has his own observations: the precise way Michael tears apart the khobz as he speaks, like he’s disassembling a piece of equipment. He doesn’t talk about work or computers _per se_, but his knowledge of music distribution sites gives an impression of a deep and broad knowledge network design and security, and when he describes the utter pain of enrolling for the yoga studio using their rudimentary website, he quips, “Honestly, it doesn’t need a redesign so much as a little gasoline and a blowtorch.” Which makes James literally guffaw and think perhaps he’s found a kindred spirit.

But none of that is as compelling as the looks Michael gives him — ranging from curious to appreciative — as he leans back in his chair and sips his wine.

Michael offers to let James drive the bike back to the flat, and, well… if James liked riding behind Michael, it’s nowhere near as much as he likes Michael riding behind him, arms around his waist, chest against his back, thighs gripping his hips…

They barely make up the stairs and through Michael’s door before they are on one another. All those lithe muscles that had been on display during Michael’s yoga session are finally under James’ fingertips as he crowds the boffin against a wall, kissing him hard. Not that Michael is playing the role of a demure lover — as soon as James brushes a hand over his arse, Michael manages to get his legs wrapped around James’ waist and their cocks pressed together.

“Bloody hell, you’re perfect,” James praises into the kiss, grasping Michael’s arse more firmly and pressing him against the wall.

“Shut up and carry me to the bed,” he orders.

“Bossy,” James comments. “It’s not my flat. Which way should I go?” He starts down the hall without waiting for a response, knowing at least the general direction Michael had disappeared in earlier

Katherine jumps off the comforter with a yowl as James bursts into the bedroom and lurches toward the king-sized bed. No sooner has he lowered Michael onto the linens than he’s working the buttons of his shirt. The urgency is unexpected, both in himself and in Michael. He’s careful these days to secure consent before sex, but whenever he broaches the subject now, Michael responds with a “trousers off _now_” or “for god’s sake shut up and kiss me,” his fingers working James’ shirt and belt.

In no time, James has him laid out on the sheets, is hovering over him, exploring all that pale, glowing skin with his mouth and hands. He can’t think of when he’s had such a responsive lover, nor such a flexible one. Nor such a _bossy_ one, but James can’t complain about orders of “more” and “_there_” and “harder.” When James finally enters him, Michael is bent nearly in half and pulling James closer, moaning his name against James’ lips, begging for more. Every time he tries to hold back, Michael urges him on — tells him to _put his back into it._

James is only too happy to comply.

When they’ve finished — and it’s a fucking _glorious_ finish — they’re sprawled on the bed on their backs, gasping for breath… and Michael starts to giggle.

“What?” James asks, too sated to be much offended.

“Bloody fucking hell, I needed that,” Michael chuckles, rolling onto his side to face James. “You take instructions _very_ well.”

James barks a laugh. “My employers wouldn’t agree.”

“Well, maybe they’re telling you to do the wrong things.”

“Most of the time their instructions aren’t nearly so appealing,” James agrees. “‘Put your back into it’ may be my new favorite order.”

Michael sniggers, and their laughter slowly fades to contentment.

“Do you want to stay?” he asks, and _god_ James is actually tempted.

“I shouldn’t,” he finally answers. “Early morning.”

“Sure,” Michael says. If he’s disappointed, it doesn’t really show.

James takes a deep breath. Okay. He doesn’t really want to leave, but it’s time. He starts to sit up.

“Do you want to hear a secret?” Michael asks softly.

James is a spy. He can’t resist a secret. “What’s that?” he whispers, lying back down.

“I turned out liking you a lot more that I originally planned.”

“Is that so?” James asks, brushing a bit of fringe from Michael’s brow.

“‘Old dog’, I thought at first. ‘Dull.’ But you really aren’t.”

“No?”

“No… well, maybe. Either you’re an old dog who’s _exceptionally_ good at learning new tricks, or else I like the old tricks.”

James chuckles. “Maybe a bit of both.”

“Maybe so.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to Souffle for betaing! I've mucked with this one, so any mistakes aren't her fault.
> 
> Also, you may notice at the end of the chapter familiar canonish events starting to move us into the decidedly-less-fluffy canon-compliant(ish) material. So, not really pre-Skyfall anymore...

The first time may have been a fluke. In fact, James is very pleased that things aren’t awkward the next time they bump into each other at the cafe — James on his way in, Michael on his way out, pausing for a moment to offer James a dazzling smile and a wave, but then continuing on his way.

But the second time… well, he’s not so sure.

Less than a week later, James has come home from a very rough mission — successful, but _bruising_. He’s sitting in the cafe the second day back, reading a novel and sipping at a very strong Americano when Michael sits down across from him, giant anorak dwarfing his svelte form. He tilts his head, scrutinizing James’ face.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” James sets the book aside.

Michael motions to the side of his face.

Ah. The swelling must be more noticeable than he thought. “I was mugged. In Rome.”

Michael’s brows shoot up.

“I was there on business and got unlucky,” James continues.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks, setting a computer bag down and taking a sip of his coffee.

James nods slowly. “My body’s a bit bruised. And my ego.” Michael huffs a laugh. “But yes, I’m essentially fine.”

“Hmmm,” Michael muses. “Perhaps you should consider some self-defense classes.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” James replies, barely able to hide his amusement. “How was your week? Less exciting, I hope.”

“Less traumatic, but possibly more exciting.” Michael offers a conspiratorial look. “I convinced my supervisor’s supervisor that we need modifications to the network… things I’ve been itching to get my hands on for _months_.”

James grins. “And how did you manage this _coup d'état_?”

Michael leans back in his chair, spreading his delicate hands, and saying a bit ironically, “What can I say? I’m a badass.”

James laughs. “Oh, now…I wouldn’t say that,” he comments, looking Michael over appreciatively. “I don’t remember it being _bad_. Quite the opposite.”

Michael bites his lip and smirks, showing just a hint of a dimple and heat in his eyes.

It’s not so frantic this time, twenty-seven minutes later when they disrupt Katherine’s nap by crashing into the entry of Michael’s flat. Urgent still — there’s something about Michael that seems to bring that out in him — but it’s almost celebratory… Michael no doubt high off his victory at work, James grateful that something that might have killed him hadn’t (yet). It’s not until Michael tries to climb him like a tree again that James grunts in pain and pulls back.

“What’s wrong,” Michael asks, straightening up in concern.

“Nothing.” James cups his face and kisses him again. “Just be careful of the ribs. They’re a bit tender still.”

Michael quickly opens James’ shirt right there in the hall. “Bloody hell. Have you seen a physician?”

“Of course,” James lies. “Nothing’s broken. It’s just a bit of bruising.”

Michael raises an eyebrow and gives him a look that says ‘all due respect, that’s a load of crap.’ In the end, though, he lets it be. “Old dogs need to be more careful,” he quips, taking James by the hand and leading him to the bedroom.

James finds himself splayed out on his back on Michael’s bed as Michael kisses his way down his torso, avoiding the bruises, before finally taking James’ cock in his mouth.

And _fuck_, the man has a wicked, _wicked_ tongue. Beyond his snark. He takes his time getting James to the edge — panting and grasping at the sheets and trying desperately not to thrust into that warm slick, _talented_ mouth. James barely notices the click of a bottle of lube and the shift of Michael’s weight, or the crinkle of the condom package, he’s so lost in pleasure. And just as he’s had all he can take — when he nearly begs for Michael to stop so he can reciprocate, Michael just tells him to lay back and enjoy the ride. Literally. The man climbs up James’ body, straddles him, and slowly works himself down James’ cock.

“Oh Christ,” James says, closing his eyes to concentrate on not whiting out or coming. When he’s under control again — and Michael is fully seated — he opens his eyes.

Bloody hell, he’s beautiful. All undulating muscles and pale skin and dark hair. James grasps his hips and thrusts up, and it really doesn’t take long after that.

As they recover, panting side by side on the sheets, Michael rolls onto his side, looking pleased and sated and just a bit smug. And James can’t help but laugh, because he _deserves_ to be smug, dammit. He’s bloody brilliant, and James tells him so.

“Another early morning?” Michael asks when their breath has quieted.

“No, actually,” James answers, turning his head to meet the gaze of green eyes. “You?”

Michael offers that familiar smirk. “No plans at all.”

They fall asleep tangled together, and as James drifts off, he can’t remember the last time he felt this much... tenderness... toward someone.

Two days later, it strikes him as very foolish.

He’s in the office, completing paperwork that he can no longer avoid, and has to admit to himself that he can no longer consider Michael a fluke or a one-off. He wants to see the man again, and he really knows nothing about him other than the fact that he’s clever, funny, good with computers, and sexy as hell. And has a wicked tongue, in all the best ways…

James has somehow neglected trying to find out anything about him, but if there’s to be a third time — and memories of the first two make James hope there will be — he really needs to satisfy his paranoid mind and ensure Michael isn’t some foreign adversary trying to use him to get into MI6. He opens a browser and starts searching.

And it’s not that Michael Smith doesn’t exist — there are twelve on Facebook and eight on Twitter alone — but none of these Michael Smiths seem to be _his_ Michael Smith. He opens another tab and tries to search in ways that will avoid Michael Smith the London designer, Michael Smith the barrister, the musician, the artist, the stay-at-home dad... Surely there’s a way to narrow the—

“007, what are you doing?” M stands in the doorway of his office.

“Ma’am. Just finishing up some paperwork,” he says, closing the search with a flick of a finger.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, let that be. We’ve had a breach. A harddrive’s been stolen, and the identities of undercover agents across the globe are at risk. We need to retrieve it before it’s sold to the highest bidder.”

James closes the laptop and stands to report for duty. “Ma’am.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Christine for the marvelous prompt, Souffle for betaing, and Azure for sharing the sarcasm prompts. I ended up using 1, 26, 43, 58, 74, and 77 (not in order of appearance) off this list: https://azure7539arts.tumblr.com/post/177148747449/prompt-list-of-sarcasm.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your wonderful comments. Until next time...

He’s sent to Istanbul on a chase gone mad: Ronson dead, Bond pursuing the drive relentlessly. It’s not so terribly unlike his last few missions, other than being paired with someone who might not be quite up for the job. Statistically, it’s inevitable. Things that should kill him _can’t_ be avoided forever. It was bound to catch up with him sometime. He wouldn’t even be bitter about it if it hadn’t been friendly fire. If the familiar voice saying, “Take the shot” wasn’t still haunting him all these weeks later, even through the confusion of fever and healing followed by the haze of drink and sand and strangers in his bed.

If he hadn’t gotten the taste for someone who wasn’t quite a stranger in his bed, just before things went all to shit...

He only beds women here, in this beachside town at the edge of the world. He can’t bring himself to take a male lover when he felt so close to actually having a male _lover_. Which is insane and a lie — he hadn’t even given Michael his name. Wasn’t sure if he actually had Michael’s name, much less anything else of importance.

But when he falls asleep at night, he can almost feel the man’s curls against his face and smell the botanical scent of his shampoo on the air.

He drifts the limbo of presumed death for weeks… months. His body heals from the fall, so he abuses it with alcohol and neglect, just so as not to feel _too_ good. He doesn’t want to feel good. He wants to feel like the discarded rubbish he apparently is. An old dog, out of tricks.

He’s not wallowing in self-pity. He would never. He just hates everything, and when the world grows too quiet, he either hears Michael’s soft snort of humor and a sarcastic quip, or else the familiar voice saying, “Take the shot…”

Both make him order another drink. And so it continues.

Until another shot _is_ taken. This time MI6 itself is hit, and the flames on the television light a fire under Bond’s arse as well. He heads home.

For a dead man, he looks pretty good. For a spy, not so much.

Still, M seems pleased to have him back, even if Mallory doesn’t have much faith in him. Tanner slips him a note of where to get his kit for the mission, since the temporary Q Branch is still being set up. He sits in the National Gallery, glaring at a painting he doesn’t like, waiting for a contact he doesn’t know, feeling both relief at being in London and the uncomfortable knowledge that neither he nor it is what they once were. His flat has been sold. He’s not part of any neighborhood, nor even really MI6… there’s no bloody way he passed his exams. M is just desperate enough to use him anyway, and Bond would rather be used by her while defending something he cares about than waste away on some beach.

A part of him wishes he’d taken the time to find Michael before heading out on a mission he’s not likely to return from. But then, why put him through it? Why put either of them through it? Besides, Michael is better off without him. Michael is clever and young and beautiful and—

And sitting down next to him. James actually does a double-take to confirm. They both just stare at the painting for a moment, James frantically trying to make sense of this, and Michael apparently content to keep him guessing.

“Always makes me feel a little melancholy,” Michael finally says, fiddling with a button on his wrist watch. “A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.”

“Mich—”

“Of course, I did look for a painting of an old dog — or even dogs playing poker — but this museum is sadly lacking in that regard.”

James sighs. He is not at all ready for this conversation. He starts to stand, saying, “I need to—”

“Bond. I’m your new Quartermaster,” Michael says quietly without looking away from the painting.

James slowly retakes his seat. This has got to be a joke. It _must_ be. There’s no way that his favorite not-so-crazy-cat-person could have been with MI6 all along. That would be too… too…

As if reading his mind, Michael says, “The universe may not always play fair, but at least it’s got a wicked sense of humor.”

James snorts a rueful laugh, immediately feeling a bit better. Still, he has to know.

“How long?”

Michael tilts his head, considering the question. “I’ve worked for Q Branch since before I knew you, but low enough down the totem pole that I didn’t realize who you were until you disappeared.” He looks down at his hands. Fidgeting. “I had been narrowing down the eight aliases my facial recognition search on you had returned,” he slips a sideways look at James before continuing, “when the news came in that… that 007 was dead. The picture in the obituary made the rest of my search unnecessary.” He seems to be about to say something else, but thinks better of it. Looking back up at the painting, he adds, “The name you know me by is an alias I took when I joined -6. Now, I can’t even use _that_.” He studies the painting another moment, sighs, and looks at his watch. “I’ve been Quartermaster for approximately 76 hours.”

Michael — or whatever his name is — bears a weight now that James doesn’t remember, but he supposes that’s appropriate. They all feel it.

“I should have come looking for you,” James says.

Michael just shakes his head. “I’ve had to move flats, and I haven’t been to the cafe in months. You wouldn’t have found me.” He looks at James now. Really looks at him. Not just the gaze of a friend, but the assessment of a Quartermaster. James straightens under the scrutiny. He knows he looks like shite. The old dog Michael always called him. He expects some jab about his state, but Michael seems to realize he’s already thinking it… already drawing a distinction between the youth and vigor and technological prowess of this new Quartermaster and his own rough and tumble _old tricks_.

Michael turns back to the painting. “You know me, a bit at least. You know some of what I’m capable of. I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field.”

James bristles in spite of himself. “So why do you need me?”

Michael shrugs. “Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.”

“Or not pulled. It's hard to know which in your pajamas.”

“Yes, exactly,” Michael says, turning to face him. “And sometimes the _old tricks_ are still necessary.”

James huffs a pleased laugh at the recognition of his skills. On some level, they do understand each other. Still, the man before him isn’t the vigilante hacker he met in the cafe, nor the yoga-practicing, cat-loving boffin he’s shared meals and beds with. Or rather he _is_ all those things, but now exhibits a control and authority James hasn’t seen before. At least, not combined. He’s certainly seen the man be bossy when he _wasn’t _exhibiting much control, but now is really not the time to think of that. And given their new professional relationship, Michael may insist that their more _personal_ interactions remain strictly in the past.

Pity, that. Even under the familiar oversized anorak, James can sense Michael’s lean physique and smell the comforting botanical tang of his shampoo. He’d like to think there’s a possibility of continuing where they left off, eventually. But for now, they both have work to do.

Michael reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves an envelope. “Ticket to Shanghai. Documentation and passport.”

“Thank you,” James says, taking them.

“And this,” Michael says, opening a small case and handing it to James. “Walther PPK/S 9mm short. There's a microdermal sensor in the grip. It's been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it. Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement. Well, you and I both can shoot it… I tested it myself. It’s ready to go.”

James takes the grip in hand, noting a small light on the base switching from red to green. “You know how to fire guns?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “I don’t just work on computers. I also design weapons. Of course I can shoot them. Based on what I’ve seen of your last test, better than you can at the moment, despite my lack of interest in fieldwork.”

James imagines it for a moment: Michael in the range in shooting stance, lithe muscles in his arms holding the Walther steady, like some extension of the Warrior pose. His mouth goes a bit dry at the thought of it. Fucking hell, he doesn’t need new ways in which to find Michael attractive. Dating his Quartermaster would be a terrible idea on so many levels… not to mention frowned upon by management. But the idea of Michael’s clever fingers wrapping around the cool metal of a gun just as competently as they’ve wrapped around—

He never had this problem with Major Boothroyd.

“And this?” James asks, pointing to a small square device in the kit and trying to get his mind back in the game.

Michael notices his fluster and offers a hint of a smile. Just enough to show his dimple, which is _not_ helping at all. “Standard issue radio transmitter. Activate it, and it broadcasts your location.”

“Distress signal.”

“Exactly. Press that, and we won’t be worrying about stealth anymore. We’ll just come get you.”

Michael glances sideways at him, and James again feels that he’s about to say something else. Again.

When nothing else is forthcoming, James comments, “A gun… and a radio. Not exactly Christmas, is it?”

“The toyshop got blasted, remember? Besides, were you expecting an exploding pen?” Michael asks with a smirk. “We don't really go in for that anymore.”

James shakes his head and closes the lid of the kit. Knowing what he does of Michael, he half expected some high tech contraption that he’d struggle to deploy. But he can appreciate the simplicity of well-designed equipment. Old tools with new life-saving features. And it implies a certain level of faith in Bond’s competence. Despite Michael’s technological capabilities, it doesn’t seem he intends to micromanage Bond. At least not on this first mission. He’s offering support and faith — exactly what James wants from a Quartermaster. James nods.

“Thank you, _Q_,” James says, turning to face him more fully.

Some mixture of pride and relief crosses Michael’s face. “007,” he replies, holding his hand out for a business-like shake. As James takes it, Q adds, “Good luck out there in the field. And please return the equipment in one piece.” He hesitates again, still grasping James’ hand as he quietly adds, “Presuming we both survive this, perhaps we can discuss… ah, _Christmas_ upon your return.”

A warmth spreads through Bond’s chest, and he suddenly feels… not alone at all, despite heading out on a mission that will likely kill him. Then again, he’s avoided death so far, and feels even more motivated to do so again. “Give Katherine my best,” he says, moving to stand.

“Do it yourself when you get back,” Q counters, fiddling with his watch again and then raising an eyebrow at James.

James laughs and shakes his head, giving Q one last lingering look.

“Brave new world,” he says, turning to get on with the mission. Because the sooner he leaves, the sooner he can come home.

-fin-


End file.
